


Kids on the Run

by maevestrom



Series: Quarantine Blues [3]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Chronic Illness, F/F, Fever, Fever Dreams, Hospitals, Infection, Isolation, Sickfic, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:14:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24327130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maevestrom/pseuds/maevestrom
Summary: Two young women with immune disorders deal with life six feet away from a deadly illness as they realize just how much they have and mean to each other.
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg/Lysithea von Ordelia
Series: Quarantine Blues [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1725118
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	Kids on the Run

**Author's Note:**

> So I wanted to try a few things here and what it ended up as was a slice of life Covid drama with Edelgard/Lysithea's Crest troubles recontextualized with the first fic I've seen in Edelgard's first person POV which seems like a wasted opportunity; Edelgard is a dream to write for in first person. I'll update this sporadically as I have only the thinnest plot for it aside from wish fulfillment from when I had a long lonely battle with cancer. 
> 
> So basically enjoy what the fresh hell this is

It's just the two of us, as it always is. I'm driving beneath a large overhead glass canopy, the occasional sky bridge connecting the north and south wings of the hospital. You're leaning against the window, burning up so hard that your ashen hair sticks to the sweat on your face, looking as dead to the world as you do. I'm concerned, but I often am. I try to hide it; when I can't, I simply do not address it. That doesn't keep you from meeting my gaze with a smirk that signals _I know what you're hiding_ more powerfully than a punch to the face. 

Though that's not the case right now; you look out the window only in moments that you can be bothered. Most of the time, you close your eyes and attempt to get comfortable. The car that I am driving is a nice and spacious new model, but I know that it's not enough. Right now, the most rest you can get mentally and physically is a hospital gurney; a sad but accurate statement of where we are.

You groan. Slightly muffled through your facemask (stylized with whiskers and a pink nose like a kitten) you ask "So we're almost here, El?" 

I still smile just a bit when you call me by my nickname. Though I'd asked, it took you a few months to fulfill my request. "As soon as I find a parking space by the Emergency Room, we will be there." 

You nod. Then: "I'll probably need my wheelchair. I'm sorry." 

"Lys," I scold. "Lys, don't feel a need to apologize. I'd already accounted for such." I look at the rain hitting the windshield wipers, aiming sideways at us despite the canopy. You seem to be latched to the rhythm like it's the only thing connecting you to here. I can feel something unpleasant settle on my gut, so I add "I do hope you have a hood." 

You snort. "Always." 

Thankfully, there is an open space not too far into the garage. I sigh in relief; I'd really not wanted to deal with circling the grounds for a fabled parking spot while you get worse next to me. I settle in and smile. It's nice when something seems to go right. 

"Hey," you say, and through your mask, I can sense a weak smile on your face.

I turn to look at you. You're small, like me, and your coral eyes give me a daring glare. Even at your most ill, you still find a way to look at least somewhat at ease; lucky me, I suppose.

"What's happening?" 

"I'm Billie Eilish." 

You're hardly resemblant, but you start giggling to yourself hard enough that I'm compelled to laugh too. "You truly are not in your right mind," I joke, because you are likely not, and I'd rather joke about it than horrify myself with worry.

"Duh." Then, you cackle, voice hoarse and thin. It's still a pleasant sound, truth be told, and I smile wider. You're quite endearing when you want to be. 

You pop the glove compartment and pull out a plain white cloth mask. "You should put this on. There's probably ninety different diseases in the waiting room alone." 

When you bring it up, I feel foolhardy. I'd already worn a pair of gloves, as I always do, but I tend to feel too invincible to remember masks. I suppose after I'd gotten my own house in order, I'd forgotten that I can still get ill easily even when stable. Still, I take it with a nod. "Thank you, Lysithea." 

"Anytime, El."

I leave the car in order to maneuver to the trunk and pull your wheelchair out, propping it to. There's enough room on your side to set it whole by your door, not requiring you to walk to reach it. "Yay," you quietly cheer. "Sorry, I'm just so tired." 

"I'd imagine." It's often hard to tell you that not having energy is fine and understandable. You've told me many times _I should be above this_ as if totalitarian control of one's body should be expected. I don't have it in me to shame you, but I also know you won't hear my explicit forgiveness without an argument or some consuming guilt, so I simply aid you into the wheelchair with the closest thing to a smile that my body can allot. 

"Thanks," you whisper, not looking at me. I simply remove your snowy hair from the handles with the sort of kindness that should make you suspicious of my intentions, though I suppose we are past that. Instead, you quietly hum and let me push you across a sky bridge connecting to the Emergency Room, leaving the hood unneeded but still a wise choice. 

You look down at the cars beneath us on the straightaway with passive interest. Though I notice the way your head turns, I look straight ahead, pressing the handicap button that automatically opens the door. You notice and sigh, the last moments where you weren't afraid dissipating in the stale air, clinging to the room like the rain does to the windows.

Quietly, I understand. I would be afraid if I were you. In fact, when I _was_ you, I was very afraid, though I had no desire to show it. I didn't have anyone reliable to express my fears to. 

I suppose that makes me lucky that I have a chance to be that someone, even if you seem reluctant to accept it.

We enter the Emergency Room. As we both feared, there are many people there, though thankfully with masks on. The pandemic made you fear that there would be "like, a hundred" people in here. I dared not counter with false comfort, either letting you stay prepared or, hopefully, giving you a pleasant shock at an empty waiting room. Alas, it _is_ a pandemic, and as such the waiting room is full. 

We check into the Emergency Room. The receptionist is behind a plexiglass wall, a sign requesting a six-foot gap between the two which I am too happy to obey. "Hello," I greet. "We called ahead as to inform you that we would be here, as I knew you were likely busy in these circumstances." 

The lady at the front desk is nice in the way that hospital receptionists maintain a polite demeanor despite the circumstances they cannot pledge blissful ignorance towards. "That's very helpful," she says, and I can't help but beam. "Who is the patient? I'm sure we've gotten her name in our system."

"You have no idea," I hear you mutter. 

Trying not to smirk at your insolence: "Her name is Lysithea Von Ordelia." 

The receptionist lights up. "Ohhh, Lysie! Yeah, I recognized her when you called in!" 

You're still too busy bristling at the name, and I can imagine a deep scowl on your face, but I just smile and say "Yes, this is she. She's running a fever of about 106 degrees Fahrenheit." You giggle, I assume, at my overt eloquence, though I'd be remiss to remind you who is suffering from a fever of 106. "Her doctor's precautions were to visit the emergency room if her temperature was so high, given her condition." 

The receptionist nods. "It's a good thing you showed up today. Unfortunately, as you can see, we are rather backed up today." 

You sigh expectantly. I say "We had our suspicions." 

"Given the state of her fever mixed with her overarching condition, however, she does run a high risk of catching it herself." We both gulp at that. It was a silent fear we had from the moment we took your temperature, and I suppose we were hoping not to hear it aloud. "So what I can do is place Miss Ordelia here on high priority and the doctors here can get to her in about an hour, tops." 

"Better than what we were expecting," I tell her, though from the look in your eyes it's still far from satisfactory. Still, you surrender your wrist to her gloved hand so she can place a paper bracelet on it, your name and patient ID on display.

"Just take a seat out there and we'll call you back when you're able." 

"Thank you," I respond quietly. I feel strangely downcast so I indulge myself in a bit of mischief. "Shall we find a seat, Lysie?" 

You groan. "Ellie, you're so lucky that I'm burning up so badly I don't wanna move." 

I smile beneath my mask, triumphant. "I think we shall." 

So we do. There aren't many seats, but I marvel at how the hospital staff put so many out that there is seating at all. We do our best to ignore the visible- and at unfortunate times, audible- illnesses surrounding us and find a pair of seats on the far right side. I pull out yours since you are using a wheelchair and set it by your feet. You catch my cue and use it as a footrest.

"You'll have to give it up should all of the seating dissipate," I inform you, taking the seat next to you. 

"I'll be fine." You respond to my silent questions before I can ask them. I appreciate that, as I can come across as a harried mother at times. Dorothea often calls me the "mom friend" to those that I meet, but I suppose the caretaker gene has long been within me.

We could normally use this time to tinker on our phones in any way to make the time go by faster, but you are too tired and I strangely do not wish to. You kick your legs onto the seat I placed for you and lean towards me. My heart skips a beat as you often make it do, but I can't say I regret it. 

"I'm cold," you whine. Though you're wearing your hoodie, I understand, as your fever is so high that while more heat wouldn't be the best idea, the insatiable chills from such an awful fever are too familiar to me, so I take my jacket off and place it over your chest.

"You don't have to," you tell me, even though I know you're happy that I did. 

"I'm fine," I respond. "I'm plenty warm."

"If you insist."

Daring, I lean my chin on your head, my arm arching across your back and my hand resting on your forearm. We're both in protective gear- though due to our close proximity in life, if you have it, then so do I. (A thought I dare not give life.) Besides, I've always been foolhardy in your presence, to your touch. It gives me respite in times where so much is in the air. 

You hum pleasantly beneath my head, and uncharacteristically, I giggle in your ear. I'd thought my behavior around you an unfortunate relic of my schoolgirl days, but as it turns out… trust me, Lysithea, I'm feeling many things and none of them are cold.

It's a pleasant distraction, being a child again.

I'd expected the wait to be long and droll, but judging by the sudden start of my heart at the distant call of your name, I'd drifted off until a doctor called for you. "Oh!" I call drowsily. "I, uh- she is here!" 

You giggle a little, somehow less tired than I. The doctor beckons to us. "We'd like to see you now, Miss Von Ordelia." 

You smirk, and I take you back behind the counter. We pass a clock and I see that it's an hour and twelve minutes later than the approximate time we entered. Gods, but I was out of it. You must think me silly.

We're escorted to the first room, which in reality is a small alcove behind a curtain with seats, a cleaning station, and some medical equipment. I push you into the room, and you grumble as you place yourself in the patient's chair. So little takes so much out of you and I can't help the concerned flush my face takes. You notice and smile weakly, but it doesn't take, and in fact, makes me sadder. 

This truly is a bad day, isn't it, Lysithea? 

I'm so happy I can be there for you. 

Your pulse and heart rate are too high. Your blood pressure… admittedly, I've never translated what the numbers mean, but the nurse attending you seems unconcerned. Finally, she takes your temperature again. I almost long for a reality where this was all an unpleasant fever dream and it's a solid 98, or at least in the low hundreds, but it's still at 106. 

"At least it's unchanged," you offer helpfully. 

"I suppose that's good." It certainly doesn't feel good. 

"So you weren't kidding about the fever," the nurse tells us in a tone reliant on forced lightheartedness. "And I'm also reading here that she's immunocompromised?"

I nod for you. "It's a rare condition. We're concerned that the fever is indicating a serious infection because of it." I almost don't want to vocalize it, but I add "With the virus going around, we are concerned that it may be that." You scowl, but it's the truth, and you know that. 

The nurse looks at me with a smile I don't believe. "We're a little backed up at the moment but I know that by the skin of our teeth, we have enough tests. So, if you wouldn't mind…" 

She reaches into a drawer to start pulling out the blood testing supplies. I know that you _do_ mind, but you're either working past it or losing that part of your humanity like I did. You just tell her "count it down for me, okay?" 

"Absolutely," she says. 

I meet your eyes as the nurse readies her supplies and tightens your arm with a band- stuff you'd detail to me as them "dragging it on". I suppose I find it silly that, with all that you endure, drawing blood is what brings fear to your eyes. Still, we're only human- cute inconsistency is part of our design. 

You yelp when the needle goes in. "She does that," I inform the nurse, an easy smile on my face. "You're fine." 

"Good! I was worried I missed the vein. I'd have to draw again." 

"Don't _even_ joke about that." 

I giggle a little as the nurse grabs the appropriate blood sample through a small intravenous tube. You roll your eyes, but I find little signs of familiar annoyance their own brand of affection, so I laugh once more. 

Afterward, the nurse looks at both of us. "I'm gonna talk to the other doctors. There's a good chance that they'll want to do more tests and procedures on you." 

"As long as none of them involve drawing blood," I offer with a breezy half-smile.

"Hey, I'm pretty sure she was talking to me," you bite back.

"I'm still right," I tease. 

The nurse gestures to your arm. "We'll leave the IV in there so if we need more blood we can take it." All the while, she's taping the tube to your arm and covering it neatly. "With that settled, we're going to send you two back to the waiting room so someone else who needs to can get their vitals." Patting you on the head: "Thanks for being such a good girl for us." 

I can't help but giggle as you glower and choke out a bitter "thank you". Go figure she, like many others, stumble upon the name you hate the most. Go figure that I'd probably learn to laugh most regularly while helping my immunocompromised friend through a global pandemic. Go figure… a lot of things, really, because few of them make sense. 

We leave back to the waiting room. With a dissatisfied sigh, you realize that our old seats have been taken, though I don't see why you'd mind, being in a wheelchair as it is. We find a single open seat on the opposite end, but it's between two people and I doubt that they'd leave room for you. As someone who's suffered a lifetime of rude looks and people stretching to take more space when I've asked for hospital seats, you'll have to forgive my cynicism. 

"Are you okay?" you ask as I circle the room again. I just nod, walking listlessly until I see a couple get called behind the door. Though only one is sick, they both make their way over. I feel a twisted mix of jealousy and satisfaction. I wonder if that will ever stop being my reaction.

We sit down. Again, I pull the chair for you into a footrest. You kick them up, still exhausted, and lean against the railing. Obediently, my arm is there before you can ask. I'm not often in the role of support, but for you, I don't mind. 

"El…" you whisper, though from lack of energy to exert or something more sacred I can't tell. "El, you don't think that it's… _that,_ do you?" 

I wish I could tell you _of course not,_ but the possibility is too magnified to deny. Instead, I say "whether it is or isn't is out of our control at this point, Lys. I'm just happy that we were privileged enough to get swift testing. So many aren't able to." 

You nod solemnly. "I just… guess I can't stop thinking about it."

"That's understandable, though I'd advise you to let it go. What's done is done, and what happens will happen. We'll face it like we have everything else- with nothing but our best." 

You manage a light smile. "I hope so." The smile dissipates. "I just… know if I have it, you probably do too." 

I nod like I've thought of the possibility and accepted it. "I've at least had my own immune disorders under control for a few years now. I'm less likely to get it, and while it could be dangerous to fall ill, no more so than anyone with an average autoimmune deficiency." It's also why I'm able to take you to the hospital and take care of you- that, and sheer will. I don't _want_ you to go it alone, Lysithea, not like I did. 

"Still not good," you respond, a crack in your voice. 

"It won't be good for anyone," I admit. "But I will survive." To get the discussion on a more light subject, I say "Who will keep you from getting into the fridge ten times a day? 

You scowl. Good. "Really? That's honestly the thing I'd miss least about you." 

I raise my finger. "You'd eat yourself out of house and home without me!"

"I think it'd be justified as me, like, grief-eating." 

"Emotional justifications aren't moving to bank accounts, Lysie."

You don't have an answer to that, so you just quietly humph, folding your arms. I think happily that you've been distracted, but when you grab my arm all hope of that fades. While I suppose some would find our gallows humor unusual, I'm far less used to your tender, desperate touch. It makes me worried that you've actually thought of me not being here for you, and that should be the least of your problems.

"Things will be alright." It's odd to hear reassurance from _you,_ Lysithea, but not unpleasant. I wonder how visibly I worried- worry- about you, especially when I think you're not looking.

I twirl a piece of your sticky ashen hair betwixt my fingers. "Yes. Things will be alright."

\---

Things are alright.

Or, they are as alright as they'll ever be.

The test results take a few hours. The time seems to fly by until they take you back behind the room for some more tests and procedures. I go with you to the rooms because on sight they must know that they can't get rid of me, but waiting outside the MRI machine seems like it takes forever. I'm not even sure _why_ they do, but they know more than I. After it finishes, I'm getting too tired to focus, but I seem to remember a lot of blood draws where you say something like "thank the Gods for the IV" and waiting in hallways while you try not to fall asleep on a gurney. 

"Who are you staying awake for?" I ask, stroking your hair by unconscious habit. 

"You, I guess." 

I blush at the casual admission. "Well, I say that you should get some rest, Lysithea. I won't mind."

"You sure?"

"I promise." 

You leave the world of the waking seconds afterward, as though all you needed was my permission. I realize with you asleep, the minutes feel like hours and I cannot dodge worry and concern over you forever. I've never been one for authentic belief in the Goddess, but sometimes I wish I was a deity because being human is so fraught with weaknesses physical and emotional. 

A nurse comes by with a smile and I dismiss her in my mind until she asks "Are you with Miss Von Ordelia?"

I look up, alert. "Shall I wake her?" 

"I'm good," you mumble with flippant boredom only someone who feels on the verge of death would have. 

"She's good," I confirm. 

"Good!" She certainly sounds too happy to be passing down a death sentence, at least. "Regarding your fever, it's certainly an infection, but I can tell you that it's nothing serious."

I beam in an instant. "That's fantastic news!" I see you barely react aside from a thumbs up and ask "Lysithea, did you hear that?" 

"Yeah, that's great," you mutter with thin cheer. "Can I go home now?" 

I giggle, long past apologizing for your impertinence. After that, it's a small rush to clear you and remove your IV before you're in your wheelchair and I'm pushing you out over the same sky bridge that we entered in. "I did park nearby, correct?" 

"Handicapped spot's always near the entrance." 

"That's a mercy." Though I'm loath to admit it, I'm a bit weary as well. 

I help you into the car, where you pull your hood over your eyes. I place the chair in the trunk, neatly folded, and take the driver's seat. 

"Thanks, El," you breathe from your seat. 

"Of course," I respond. I am admittedly stubborn, but that will always be my response until you stop thanking me for basic kindnesses. 

You just chuckle to yourself slowly. You're asleep before I leave the parking garage. It's just you, me, the low engine, the rain hitting the windshield wipers that scrape by to remove it, and your music, on a track that oddly sounds like windshield wipers and a Yamaha engaged in procreation. The combination of sounds creates a rhythm all its own. It's breathtaking. It feels… very right. Even after we get home, I'm reluctant to turn the car off and wake you until I remind myself that, yes, you _are_ still running a 106-degree fever, and promptly jostle your shoulder.

"I can walk in," is the first thing you say.

"Your priorities never cease to confound me," I respond, but truthfully I'm happy that I need not expend energy on the wheelchair. 

"You love me," you respond with quite a lot of humor for something more correct than you know. 

"True," I concede with as much flippancy. You just giggle and open the door. You cling to the car, then my arm as we walk in, but you insist that you don't need the wheelchair and that I'm a worrywart. I concede that as well. 

We're inside our house and you're tired and clingy enough to feel like a drunken lover, a beautiful rock tied to my waist, tipping downward and threatening to pull me with you, though you've not yet. I lead you to bed, force the covers over you, point the fan at you (causing you to lean into your covers) and promptly appear with a bottle of ice water should you need it.

"You're too kind," you insist with a smile.

I shake my head. "A too-kind Edelgard would sneak a brownie from yesterday onto your nightstand." 

"I'm serious," you say like this means something. "You're so… good to me. And it's… I don't thank you enough. I really don't." 

I'm blushing red-hot. I must match my button-up blouse. "Lys, it's quite all right. I do this because I want to. Because you're my friend and I don't want you to be alone."

_Like I was._

"El…" You don't say anything else, just snuggling into your blanket, but what you don't say can be read in your smile, blissful and sleepy, safe and comforted. 

I decide to tuck you in. I normally don't, but you let me this time. "From my experiences, the fever should decrease in time. Ibuprofen will help, as will other traditional gestures, but with your immune system it will take longer." 

"Least that's all it is." 

I feel your forehead. You're predictably hot to the touch, but I hope I soothed it a little. "I trust you to let me know if you need anything?"

"You're the best…" 

You yawn, and then you're asleep. I cannot imagine how someone can fall asleep in an instant, but you've always been one to confound me. I look at you, sick yet peaceful, pained yet surviving. Not only that, surviving with your whole heart. 

I retreat from your room, gingerly closing the door, and move to sit on the couch. I suppose that to outsiders, I'd look a little unnerving in my devotion. Yet, I promised you, did I not? I suppose the promise should have served as a warning. I made it because I've been there before. I've been where you are, struggling with autoimmune deficiencies that hinder my energy, leaving me frequently ill and stranded at the hospital. Only in recent years, around when we both officially met, had I started to get it under control. 

But I was alone. 

I hadn't yet been of age when I started to take myself. My guardians did the bare minimum but impersonally so. They were hardly emotional comfort and they were only marginally better at physical. I'd had it put upon myself to arrange rides to the hospital (if circumstances did not restrict me to the bus or taxi services, so unreliable was the medical service) and face the procedures, inpatient and outpatient, that led me on the journey that you are currently in the swelling point of. 

I decided at around the point that I made you the promise that you would not go through the same thing. Despite the circumstances of my illness, I'm well off enough to live in my own home at the age of twenty-two, and I'm more able-bodied than I've been throughout my entire sickly life. You came up through a broken system, one I was lucky enough to avoid, one that chills me to hear about.

You needed a friend.

And perhaps, Lysithea, so did I. 

I know that even if my upbringing were normal and I was healthy, I'd still do the same for you.

I think a little more, and decide that the little bit extra is enough for me to place a brownie from last night on a paper towel and quietly leave it on your nightstand. You're restless in your sleep, but you still smile. I find the unconscious tenacity… to be something beautiful, honestly.

It suits you.

"Good night, Lysie," I mouth as I leave again.


End file.
